


Hunt the Thimble

by lepoppeta



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings May Change, actual cats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepoppeta/pseuds/lepoppeta
Summary: Skimbleshanks is born in a train car. Being the mascot and mouser of the Midnight Mail is enough for him... until one day, it isn't.
Relationships: Munkustrap/Skimbleshanks (Cats)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Cobwebs

Skimbleshanks is born in a cobwebbed corner of a train car, with the sound of the engine forever rumbling in his ears; the sharp whistle of the locomotive is a bright alarm in the distance.

He is the only kit in his litter.

He kneads at his mother's belly; she licks him softly between the ears. For now, he is warm and he is loved -- forever connected to the sway of the boxcars and the endless blurr of countryside all around him.

Skimbleshanks sleeps, encircled by his mother’s fur and warmth. They are hitchhikers-turned-adventurers; the homeless who found a home. 


	2. Rascal

“ _Well, aren’t **you** the little rascal?_” 

The conductor wasn’t expecting to find a cat in one of their empty cattle-cars, let alone two, but he can’t even begin to conjure up the desire to be frustrated. His eyes crinkle at the corners when the littlest of the two pounces at his Oxfords; tangles with his shoelaces. 

“ _You n’ your ma are welcome to stay as long as you please._ ” The conductor crouches down to scratch the tabby kitten beneath the chin. His voice is lilting; as coarse as summer hay. The mother watches cautiously, the tip of her tail twitching.


	3. Sardines

Skimbleshanks (or 'Scotty', as the friendly conductor has taken to calling him -- his mother thinks it's a bit of a silly name, but he doesn't mind) catches his first mouse whilst nosing about the mail car. He's hailed as a hero; applauded by the conductor.

“ _You’ll make a proper mouser, at this rate._ ” The conductor draws his broad, calloused hand over Skimbleshanks’ back as he nibbles on his prize: half a tin of sardines that the man was banking on for lunch. “ _Maybe I’ll keep you on -- we could do without the mice eating through the mail._ ”

Skimbleshanks purrs, unconcerned. 


	4. Grey

“You’re leaving?”

Skimbleshanks’ tail droops abruptly, his eyes growing wide and sad. His mother (she wasn’t young when he was born, he knew, but…) licks him between the ears, as if he was still a newborn. After six months, he already stood well past her shoulders. 

“You have the conductor; you are grown up.” Her tortoiseshell coat is dull; flecked with grey. 

“But-”

“Hush,” she scolds him, gently. The locomotive gives a sharp whistle. She presses her muzzle into his forehead; her whiskers are still soft enough to tickle. 

“ _Mar sin leat. Tha gaol agam ort._ ”

**Goodbye. I love you.**


	5. Vest

The wife of the Stationmaster at Crewe takes a fancy to the lanky ginger tabby, and sews him a vest. It clashes somewhat with his own coat -- a mottle of dark autumnal colours.

It reminds Skimbleshanks of his mother. 

He has his own bowl for water, and a tidy woolen bed. He no longer has to sleep in the cattle-car. 

It’s almost enough to cause him to move on, but then he recalls the gold in her eyes when the train passes by a field of rippling wheat.

Skimbleshanks’ heart clenches painfully. He perches on a window sill, and remembers.


	6. London

London is a frequent destination. It’s the end of the line going South; the beginning of the line traveling North. A sprawling, bustling city built around the mighty River Thames. 

Skimbleshanks has been mousing on the Midnight Mail for nearly two years, and he hasn’t been left wanting. He has food and affection; steady work and a place to sleep. Suddenly, the brown-brick chimneys look more enticing than the locomotive’s own smokestack. The grid-like streets seem more fun to explore than his regular station stops. 

One afternoon, Skimbleshanks bumps his head against the conductor’s palm, and departs from Euston Station. 


	7. Fog

There are far more people that he’s used to. None of them stay obediently inside cabins, and only come out when necessary; they wander the roads in disorganised clusters and don’t take kindly to a lanky ginger tabby weaving between their legs. 

Skimbleshanks is so absorbed in the new sights and smells that he doesn’t notice Euston Station shrinking into the distance. When the sun starts to descend and the fog begins to clear, he leaps onto a fence post to try and get his bearings. 

There’s nothing but cobblestone streets and neat townhomes as far as he can see. 


	8. Lost

“My dear fellow, you seem dreadfully lost.”

A portly tuxedo is perched high up on a concrete post surrounding a big park. Skimbleshanks’ paws are sore from wandering the endless, grid-like roads. He wants his little wool bed underneath the control booth; a scratch behind the ears from the conductor. 

He just wants to go home. 

“I’m afraid I am,” he says. “Do you know the quickest way to Euston Station? I have to catch a train.”

The black-and-white tom’s eyes grow soft. He glances up at the rapidly darkening sky. “I’m afraid you won’t be catching any trains tonight.”


	9. Professor

The cat’s name is Bustopher Jones, and he proves himself to be a warm and helpful creature. He invites Skimbleshanks to spend the night at his home -- an ornate, pale grey townhouse lining Green Park.

His chosen companion is a middle-aged university professor; the house is filled with dark wood and leather, and smells strongly of tobacco and old paper. 

_“Found yourself a friend, Buster?”_ Skimbleshanks allows the man to gently stroke his back. _“Make yourself at home. You wouldn’t be the first!”_

Dinner is venison with rich gravy and potatoes. Bustopher stifles a laugh as Skimbleshanks wolfs it down. 


	10. Freckles

“Bustopher, good- oh! Hello!”

Skimbleshanks is pleasantly warm and groggy from perhaps the best sleep of his life on non-moving ground; he has to blink a few times to register the second ginger tabby that has slipped through the open window in the Professor’s study. 

She’s stocky. Her striped pelt is broken up with clusters of freckles and rosettes. Bustopher (politely) shoulders past Skimbleshanks and greets her like she’s the most beautiful creature on the planet. 

As he watches the pair lovingly curl around each other, something flutters deep inside Skimbleshanks’ chest. He smiles with an emotion he cannot name. 


End file.
